‘I went round to the houses, as usual, selling my bunches of roses; I sold one to Madame Laborde, and two to the Demoiselles Bréant; and M. François Corbelin, the musician, bought one, but he did not pay me,--he had no money with him to-day, but he promised for next time. Then I went to the château of M. des Pintréaux, but the ladies did not want any of my roses; and then I walked on with my basket to the Château Malouve. The lackeys told me that Monsieur was not in, but that he was a little way along the road, and that I was to take him my roses, as he particularly wished to purchase them, he wanted them all; so I walked on, but I was distressed, for I did not like to meet M. Berthier alone. He always addresses me in a way that gives me pain, and he makes his jokes, so that I am ashamed.’ ‘Well, well, go on.’ ‘So, my father, after I had shown him my basket----’ ‘Then you found him?’ ‘Yes; he was at no great distance. He laughed when I came towards him. He did not seem to care much for the roses, but looked at me with his horrible eyes, and he put his hand to my chin, and asked for a kiss, then I was frightened and ran from him; but he followed me, and I was so frightened that I could not run with my usual speed; my head was spinning, and I scarcely knew whither I was going; then, just as he caught me up, M. le Curé rescued me from him. God be praised!’ Matthias turned from the door-post to resume his pitchfork, but his daughter intercepted him once more. ‘My father,’ she entreated, ‘say that I am never to go again with my roses to M. Berthier!’ ‘Did he pay you for the bunches he took?’ ‘No; I ran away before he paid for them.’ ‘You are a fool; you should have taken the money, and then run away.’ Lebertre now stepped forward to interfere. ‘It is not right, Matthias, that the poor child should be sent into such peril again.’ ‘M. Berthier buys more bunches than any one else,’ answered André, moodily. ‘Dear father, I have too often to suffer the looks and smiles and jokes of those to whom I offer my bunches of flowers,’ said the girl, emboldened by finding that the priest took her part. ‘Let me work in the field every day with you. Let us dig up the garden, and turn it into a potato-field.’ ‘Remember the risk to a young and pretty child,’ continued the curé, ‘in sending her round the country alone with her basket of flowers. The young gentlemen are gay and reckless; shame and sin enough have been wrought in this neighbourhood by them, and M. Berthier is notorious for his debaucheries. You are thrusting your child over a precipice.’